


In the house of flesh

by nicasio_silang



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Clairestiel: Cas as Claire Novak, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicasio_silang/pseuds/nicasio_silang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the blindfold_spn prompt: <i>This vessel is growing up and coming of age, and sometimes Castiel gives in to the urges.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In the house of flesh

It's early in the summer of 2012 when Castiel realizes that his vessel is just a body now. A living, dying body growing older every day. A vessel suffused with grace is like an insect drowned in amber, but an empty vessel is just a human being, and his is just a 14-year-old girl.

Better this than Jimmy, he thinks. She has a few more years left in her. Presuming, of course, that the years will go on unfurling.

She's wrapped in a towel, sitting, dripping onto a mottled motel bedspread. She stretches her legs in front of her and points her toes. There is a smooth ache in these legs; this body is growing. Claire, sleeping, tosses and turns inside herself. She thinks, _I never ever want to grow up_. And that's okay, she won't. Cas will instead. He hushes her, and she's gone again.

Dean comes through the door and balks.

"Think you could put on some clothes, Cas?"

"I think I could, yes." Cas crosses her legs and leans back on her elbows. She's feeling obstinate today, just like yesterday.

Dean waits. Through the open doorway she sees a crow perch on the Impala's driver's side mirror. Castiel stands and wraps the towel tight around herself, pinching a line across the top of her chest. She walks to the door. Dean stays very still. He's half-closing his eyes.

She walks right out and up to the car, bare little feet on the hot pavement. The bird doesn't fly off until she's less than two feet away. The air is dense, still. Wings flap and don't even make a breeze. Her hair sits lank on her skin.

"Cas," Dean says behind her. It's not much of a warning. There's nobody to see. The virus came through this town months ago.

If Castiel tries, and she does, she thinks she should be able to see the faded impression of Sam walking down the sandblasted stretch of road that's simmering from the doorstep to the horizon. She tries, but it's dim, and it could be anything, really. Maybe just some wandering corpse, tripping towards them slowly. She backs up and closes the door behind her. Dean lets out a breath.

“The shower’s working,” Cas says.

“Yeah, I gathered that.”

They’re standing side-to-front inside a shadow the window can’t reach. It’s been four days straight driving, chasing the heat because it makes the infected lethargic. When Dean sighs, Cas can smell the ghost of the gas he’d siphoned from a flipped Accord hours ago. Dean always does the siphoning. Better at the suck and spit, but that’s a joke he never tells anymore.

It’s like he’s barely there some days, and so she leans until her shoulder is pressed up into his chest. She feels so small now, like this, even though it’s been a very long time. Or perhaps it’s that the Earth feels larger. The atmosphere wraps around her, the heat off Dean’s body is enormous, the unaugmented muscles of her back and shoulders press up against gravity, and slog through the minutes. Cas turns and rests her forehead on his collarbone.

“Don’t,” Dean says. And then, “Don’t you know by now why this is...” He doesn’t finish, and he clutches one hand at the front of her towel, clenching it closed. She turns her head and speaks to his adam’s apple.

“Of course I do,” Cas says. “Because this was never my skin.” She runs light fingertips along his arm, catches the hairs of it on her rough-bitten nails. “Because you’ve never seen my face.” She moves until she’s speaking in kisses on his neck. “Even in deepest damnation. You closed your eyes.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs through her hair. “That’s really not why.”

“Oh.” She fakes a smile. She lifts up his shirt one-handed. “Then I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Castiel has always been curious. He used to count the moments of Dean’s sleep, look for the lines of his hunched shoulders, wonder about the temperature of the air between Dean’s jacket and his body. He used to try to watch every part of Dean’s face while they spoke to each other. He drew close to see the smaller changes. This body has sharper eyes, and these days she spends her time riding shotgun, sticking and unsticking her thighs from the seat, watching Dean’s hands far away on the steering wheel. Earlier today they were restless. They moved when she moved her legs.

She rests one palm on his belly and catches his free hand in hers. Their fingers together find the curve of her jaw, their thumbs drag into her mouth. Salt and dust and leather and something chemical. She tongues at his fingernail. He hums, or he says _please_ , or he says _don’t_. He doesn’t like to see Cas like this; she keeps her face tucked under his chin.

With her nose, she snuffles at and under the collar of his shirt. It’s damp with sweat. Something about living in a child has helped her to appreciate these animal moments. Dean smells like his car, and like hot clay. He moves his hand to rest over her breastbone, spanning nearly the whole width of her.

“Go on,” she says in the space between his shirt and his skin. She presses the tip of her pinky into his belly button. His stomach jumps, his chest hitches.

“Cas,” he says. His fist clenches and unclenches around the cloth in his hand, his knuckles digging into her ribs. He’s rubbing his cheek back and forth across her hairline like he’s shaking his head.

“Go on and close your eyes,” Castiel says. And she knows as soon as he’s done it.

He breathes out, leans back, knocks the back of his head against the wall. He lets his hands meet at the nape of her neck, under her hair. She slides down him, she lets the towel bunch and fall away. On her knees she wraps an arm around one of his legs and it’s like the trunk of a tree, she seems so small, and he’s become a looming thing, straining against the press of her, straining out into the air.

She laps at the skin she finds from unbuttoning his fly and peeling down his jeans. The line of hair down his stomach to his crotch where she breathes in the scent off his hardening cock, and she takes the skin of his scrotum and rolls it between her lips. She can hear him choke deep in his throat when she takes one ball into her mouth and tips her head back just a bit, pulling, pressing it warmly against her upper palate.

It’s quiet in this room, an empty room in an empty building. The only noises are her fingers digging into the back of his knee, his hands hushing through her hair, the wet exit from her mouth and then the rasp of her tongue at the base of his cock, open-mouthed kissing, tasting the days it’s been since they’ve done this. She brings one hand up and cups the swelling head in her palm, rolls it slick with precome along her lifeline, and travels up along his shaft with her cheek pressed up against the length of him, painting a smear across her face.

Cas holds him and moves minutely, she squeezes, and she huffs deliberate breaths against him, and she takes her time. She looks up, which rests his cock just barely on her bottom lip. She sees his eyes squint tighter shut, his mouth fall open.

She pushes forward and fills her mouth with him, and it’s so much, it never felt like this much when she was a man. Her cheeks hollow immediately, pulling him in on instinct, her tongue flattens and her lips curl. Cas takes a moment to feel the cock inside her mouth. It’s heavy, and he’s trying so hard not to push. He’s gotten so careful with her. She pushes him back so his ass hits the wall, she urges him to bend his knees so that her reach is better, and then she takes him as deep as she can.

Dean is whisper-quiet. He spent his adolescence a thin bathroom door or one bed away from his father, his brother. His litany comes out strained. _Cas_ , he says. _Oh, oh, please, yeah._

She’s bobbing her head and jacking him just below her lips. Dean used to close his eyes to do this to Cas, but she keeps hers open so she can see his balls tighten, so she knows when to reach for them and press her thumb where he needs. Saliva drools out of her mouth and she slides along it, she presses, presses in hard. She hums _mmm_ and contracts her throat. His knees are beginning to shake and she digs her nails into the back of his leg.

Castiel wants very much to say _Dean, look at me_ , but she can’t pull away. He’s lost, he’s coming long and stuttering down her throat. It’s leaking from the side of her mouth and running down her chin.

She lets him out slowly. She rests her face against his softening cock because it feels so certain. She knows he’s going to walk away in just a moment. Pull up his pants and go take a lukewarm shower. But Cas feels like she has Dean rooted right now, here, standing over her, panting. She runs a hand up and down his calf.

Dean pulls up his pants. Slowly, so carefully, he slides with his back against the wall until he’s sitting right in front of her. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet, but he lets his head fall forward. Their foreheads touch by happenstance. Cas folds her legs more comfortably, and she shuts her eyes too.


End file.
